“Can you stay at breakfast club today?” he asks as we head to the car.
“Not today. I have to be at the training ground early.”
That little disappointed look hits right on cue. It gets me every time. One of the reasons we moved to Carlisle.
“But if I go in early, I can pick you up after school and we can play some games before dinner.” It might be questionable parenting, but the attempted bribery works. His face lights up, and just like that, I’m back in the running for the award.
By the time I reach the training ground I am ten minutes behind schedule and pretending I’m not.
Most of the players are here already. The usual noise greets me. Boots on concrete. Coaches calling instructions for players to hurry up. Someone asking about recovery minutes. Someone else wanting a decision about media access.
Normal pressure.
Normal responsibility.
I move through it automatically. Answering questions. Making decisions. Adjusting sessions. The part of the job I understand completely.
But part of my attention keeps drifting toward the time.
She should be here soon.
I tell myself it’s professional interest. She’s doing the interview. I want to see how she handles herself when she’s prepared instead of surprised.
That’s all.
Except I already told media to send her straight to my office.
And I turned down two other outlets for this.
Right.
Maybe notjustprofessional.
I glance down at my shirt.
The batter stain is still there. Fainter now, but visible.
Brilliant.
I run a hand through my hair instead and head back toward my office.
The closer the interview gets, the twitchier I get. My pulse kicks up a notch. Something shifts low in my stomach.
Ridiculous.
It’s an interview. Not a first date.
Still, I straighten the papers on my desk. Move a mug. Open the window slightly.
I don’t know why.
Maybe because she struck me as someone who notices small things.
Then I sit.
Wait.
Tell myself I’m not waiting.
